Intervention
by VFalke
Summary: What would you do if a disorder consumed you, threatened your life, the lives of those around you, and forever tempted to play vivid horrors of your past like a projector screen? What if it wasn't so easy to erase the old memories with new ones?


**

* * *

**

**RESIDENT EVIL:** _Intervention_

_Rated_: M for graphic images, dark references, and possible future sexual situations.

Anonymous [no flames] reviews welcome.

One of the two projects I am currently working on-- my friend asked I posted this one first once it was finished. A bit in a hurry, so errors wil be fixed a few days prior to this posting. Thank you for reading-- Review lots :)

* * *

"_I hope there is something waiting for me out there."_

The outskirt of town is the only place secluded enough to offer peace of mind, but that wasn't the only reason he headed this way. No, not even the quietest of places could calm the racing thoughts that teased his sanity each day. Though, it was better than a ruckus, which just by resembling a familiar sound could trigger all fears that he tried to suppress. Nevertheless, it wasn't just the noises that he remembered… any sound was unnerving and beckoning him to react violently or freeze in horror— a mesh of them creating a snake charming tune that caused millions of hands to drag beneath his skin—forever attempting to bring him so far down each step would require effort, but instead of finding that perfect grip to do so they continued to slip, slide, stretch, and reposition themselves in an annoying fashion until he broke down.

He grasped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white as snow, which happened to compliment the paling of his face as he observed the lines of the road resemble waves in the ocean and created a similar sea sick sensation within his gut. He couldn't grasp anything anymore, nor could his vision calm long enough to enjoy something pleasant. In fact, just the other morning, his baby sister appeared to him as a woman Majini, draped in rags with half broken bottle mutating from an image that was once a glass of milk. The last thing he remembered was snatching up a steak knife and just like that – he was huddled upon the floor and staring at a clotting gash on his inner palm while Claire Redfield wiped up droplets of blood leading straight to him… It was episodes like these that barely made him human anymore. He didn't even know who he was at times.

The vehicle rose beneath him and indicated he had gone smidgen too far, resulting in a wheel on the sidewalk next to the bridge as he came to a stop. His cheeks expanded as he blew out all the air in his lungs through pursed lips whilst his fingertips quickly raked through his twisted, brunette strands. Sure, it wasn't the finest of parking jobs, but would he really be here long?

That's right; he didn't ever stay for too long. After all, he was constantly on the move, running from the demons of the past that only resided in his memory— but damn did they seem so real and ravenous. It was like driving through a group of birds, hitting each along the way, and wondering when you should stop wincing, never knowing if one might break through. In his episodes, they always broke through, but how badly they threw him off the road was the only concern. One of these days the demon, who devours the angel in pure cannibalism, will convince him to commence the end of the anticipation by getting him to take his own life— whether that day was today was the question.

Each step out of his Hummer seemed much too fast, but he worked against the speed of his eyes and the tempo of his feet to approach the edge of the city bridge. Down below, danced the lights of moving vehicles around the immobile luminosity of street lamps. Everything was much smaller from up here and he began to wonder if this was how Albert Wesker felt throughout life. Even in his grave, the dark enemy of his history still had an impact; no dream was ever a dream through a whole night—always manifesting into a nightmare filled with crowding tentacles that made Wesker just out of reach.

In the corner of his eye he caught view of a flat platform that he could stand on wonderfully. He advanced towards it in a few long strides and then began to ease his way up, shaking in his fingers as he hoisted his body onto it. Slowly, slightly swaying, he stood and positioned his toes just over the edge while overlooking the long drop. The jumping portion already occurred in his stomach, twisting and contorting it as the wind urged him back.

"_No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to escape my memories."_

Escape was not a word he gave into very often; the thought of cutting and running was something not of his nature. Plus, at this point, nothing provided such a verb—not medication, not shrinks, not friends, not even his sister. Not to mention, his pride was a top reason for fighting for his sanity himself. Often, he wondered if post traumatic stress disorder was just four words that were made to hold him back. _No one would hold Chris Redfield back, not even from jumping into the abyss below_, he thought as he observed his fate.

His toes curled within his shoes, tipping him into the roar of the city alive below, and in unison bringing his arms out wide. A mass of air filtered through his nose, staggering as the brisk temperature of the oxygen tensed the inner tissue of his nostrils, and then he pressed. He pressed harder than he had ever done before, he was pressing away from his worries and into a new light, he was ending the pain and suffering just as it had came. All the duties, missions, and sense of richeousness suddenly faded as the world crumbled and fell around him. Then, his throat clamped shut.

Struggling to breathe, his disconnected gaze came to peer upon the world as it crashed for the last time before his eyes, but he saw no beams of light or bottom approaching—there was nothing—but a vat of faces.

"Chris!"

Sheva's voice echoed in his mind until a picture unfolded, capturing a glimpse of the war they fought side by side against orders administered by HQ. Head splitting monsters, explosive collisions, and the rumble of a crazed motorcyclist manifested from the commotion below. As tears stung his eyes, Sheva came once more into view with her sad, deep brown pools that wanted nothing more than to aid him in his quest to fix this world; she was the definition of partner.

"No!"

He screamed out against the thickness in his throat but the words were lost as the memory recollected—his hand reaching out to help her, to save her, to keep her from Wesker's grasp. Their hands touched, the sheer warmth as if it was real and then her two hands came around his burly arm and tugged him down. Sheva's fingertips curled into his forearm, digging her dirtied, razorblade nails into his flesh and peeling back his skin as she suddenly seemed to weigh that of a tank. As her angelic facial structure developed into Wesker's crooked grin, she fell with his skin engorged deep under her nails. He watched as the blood trickled, causing him to gasp like water went down the wrong pipe, tearing his focus towards the top of the plane to succumb to the darkness.

Then it was done. He awoke as if it was a bad dream and was huddled against his vehicle with bloodshot eyes staring at the ledge he once stood from. When he recollected his thoughts, he quickly brushed the beading sweat from his forehead only to experience a strange sticky substance upon his fingers. He withdrew his hands, glancing with awe at blood that had coated underneath his nails as he swiveled from his palms up to the back of his hands up. As if it took place that very moment, the ache in his arm returned, luring him to gaze at one word gashed into the firm flesh of his forearm.

_Kijuju._

"_I guess the more horrors that get seared into your brain… the less likely you are to forget"_

He threw his head back into the metal of his vehicle and swallowed down the bile rising while prayed to the stars to wake up safe in his bed. The worst part of such an illness is he never knew if anything was real and could only sit and wait for someone to inform him his arm was a bloody, heap like a homesick abortion.

The dull ache intensified as if someone had poured salt into the wound—as if—the sensation was so intense he felt it in his throbbing temples. Not only did his head scream, but so did his heart, like there was a hole where his heart should be. Nevertheless, he calmed himself, fighting to make it through to be the death of the demons that drug him down. The true question being… could he truly last?

"Chris!" A female voice rang out before quick footsteps sounded. "Oh, Chris…" The tone dropped to soft harmony before a presence knelt beside him. "Let's get you home."

Maybe he wasn't alone.

His eyes burst open as if someone had stretched his pupils with a pair of rusty tweezers, creating an alien stare.

Yes, he was.

* * *


End file.
